Ba

Sept. 13, 2006

Deep, navy sky surrounded us. Only the reflection of the moon and a peep of light gleamed from inside the house.

“Ba, do you want the light on?” I asked. To keep the house smelling new (and less likewhat we’re eating), we always grilled and fried all our food outdoors.

“It’s okay,” he replied. Blue flames danced underneath the wok. He poured in the oil to coat the bottom of the pan.

How can you see what you’re cooking? I wondered. But I didn’t say anything, just watched my dad as he worked his magic. His wrist moved the spatula around like a magician’s wand, evenly browning each piece of garlic.

“During the Khmer Rouge… it was just like this. Every night, you do what you can, by the light of the moon. No other light. That’s it,” Ba began.

I envisioned my dad fleeing through the black night of Cambodia, escaping death. No compass. No map. No directions. Only the sun, the moon, and a heart destined for freedom. How did he survive? How on earth did he make it here, alive? Continue reading →

Waiting at the gate to board, I searched for my boarding pass. My hand brushed against a Ziploc bag.

Fresh coconut slices.

I held the bag in my hands. It was a bit of a nuisance; if the juice leaked from the bag, it would soak my journal, laptop, chargers, and travel pillow. My backpack was already cramped.

But Ba had insisted.

~ ~ ~

Before coming to the airport, Ba stood in the kitchen, holding a fresh coconut.

“We have fresh coconuts?!” I asked, a bit bewildered.

“It’s for you, កូន (daughter), drink the juice,” Ba grabbed a mini axe, the size of a butcher knife, then hacked away at the head of coconut. He flipped the coconut upside down and drained the clear coconut juice into a tall glass. He carved the pearly, white flesh out into thin slivers, and packed them into a ziploc.

“Drink.” He pointed to the glass. “For the plane ride.” He handed me the bag.

It was a short trip home, and I didn’t get to spend as much time with my parents as I had wanted. Actually, I spent the least time with Ba. It was the weekend before Father’s Day, and I was not able to stay another week to celebrate Father’s Day with him either.

“Hurry, let’s go,” the surgical team rushed, preparing the patient to return to the catheterization lab (cath lab)

A woman hovered against the isolation glass, looking on through her dried tears. She watched in anxiety as the patient was about to be rolled away. Would she see him again, alive? No one knew. Her face crumbled, her chest heaved, and hot streams flowed down. She sobbed fear into her hands.

The heart surgeon led the way. Her lips sealed tight together; she didn’t say a word.